Today the leaves are showing pale undersides, like frightened rabbits or fleeing whitetail deer. Wind currents transform the leaves into shaky jazz hands, shimmying up and down the tree.
Undersides of green willows are silver, nodding and bowing to the gusts as they pass. Bird feeders rock with their own rhythm.
What are these cut flowers at my table? Diminutive sunflowers? Giant black-eyed Susans? They wilt sadly, hunched over, looking as though they just exhaled a big, draining sigh. The clouds are a low dense layer of cotton to be pulled out of a package and thrown away.
There will be no sunset tonight. Complainers whine about ninety-degree heat and drought all summer, and are now so sorry they complained. Yes, we are fickle. The things we think are important; so often, so simply, are not.
The ice maker chinks out the frozen crescents with clockwork timing. Ice rocks out against the freezer door. As predictable as a church bell tolling, it awakens me into the practical moment.
And now it is night. Loved ones are far away. I poke myself in the eye with the spigot faucet when I drink from it in the dark. Then I am up early; not able to sleep after five a.m.
Summer is gone, and dark takes over more than half of the day. I finish my poem, awaiting the light of dawn.
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